OTBBY, BY UOpPEB, S A]f ; l> BBftfflJf A CO, H. Q SMXTH, j, M. COOPER, Wu. A. MORTON, ALFRED SANDERSON TEtfMS —Two l>ollars per annum, payable all oases in advanoe. OFFlCE—Southwest corner of Centre Square. 49*A.liNetters on business should be ad dressed to CqOPER, SANDERSON A Co. The Beautiful hand. There’s a Beautiful Land by the Spoiler untrod, Unpolluted by sorrow or care; ■ It Is lighted alone by the presence of God. Whose throne anti whose temple are there, Its crystalline streams, with a murmurous flow, . Meauder througn valleys or gTeen, And Its mountains ofjasper are bright in the Of mortal hath seen. And throngs of glad singers, wi h Jubilant breath, , , ... Make the air with their melodies rife; And One, known on earth as the Angel of Death, A , Shines here as the Angel of Life! And Infinite teudernes* beams from Ills eyes, On his brow is an infinite calm, And His voice as it thrills through the depths of the skies. Is as sweet as the Seraphim’s psalms. Through the amaranth groves of a Beautiful Land Walk the Souls who were faithful in this; And their foreheads, star crowned by the zephyrs are fanned That evermore murmur of bllBS; They taste the rich fruitage that hangs from the trees, And breathe the sweet odor of flowers More fragrant than ever were kissed by the breeze In Araby’s loveliest bowers. Old Prophets, whose words were a Bpirlt of flame, Blazing out o’er the darkness ol time; And. Martyrs, whose courage no torture could tame, Nor turn Iroin thetr purpose sulllme; And tialnts and Confessors, a numberless throng. Who'were loyal to Truth and to Right, And left as they walked through the darkness of wrong Their foot-prints encircled with light And the dear little children, who went to their rest Ere their lives had been sullied by sin, Wlille the Angel of Morning still tarried, a guest, TheL spirits’ pure t mple within— All are there, all are there—ln the Beautiful Land, The /.and by the Spoiler untrod, And their foreheads, star-crowned, by the breezes are fauned That blow from the Gardens of God. My soul hath looked In through the gateway of dreams « On the City all pavon with gold, And heard the sweet flow of Its murmurous streams, As through the green valleys they rolled ; Aud though It still waits on tills desolate .strand, A pilgrim and stranger on earth, Yet It knew, in tnat glimpse of the Beautiful Lund, That it gazed on the home of its 1 Irth. sltecdtonmtss. The Natural History of Brides, We have been favored with natural histories of man, of birds and beasts, of the world, but no one has yet essayed the history of that indispensable crea ture, the bride. We propose in this article to attempt to show how the vacuum caused by the shortcomings of authors may be supplied by some en terprising Bohemian. A bride is the culmination of a mother’s anxiety aud thecommence ment'of a liusbaud’s serious reflections, A mother looks upon her daughter ar rayed as a bride, as an arrow shot from her household quiver at that butt of female archery, man ; aud, if the arrow lias made a fair hit, is prone to chuckle over the shot as showiug forth her su perior matronly skill. If, on the con trary, the success is doubtful, then the mother, like a bad archer, blames the arrow, the luck, any thing, indeed, but her own bad management. Brides are divided into numerous classes. For example: sentimental brides, who marry for love ; specula tive brides, who marry for money; anx ious brides, who marry for the sake of being married ; accommodating brides, who marry because their lovers asked them to marry ; unresisting brides, who marry because their friends desire them to marry ; iuquisitive brides, whom ar ry for curiosity, and invalid brides, who marry to restore their health. Sentimental brides are the most nu merous, but not the most happy of the orange-wreathed tribe. They are gen erally young creatures, who revel in poetical dreams connected with the wearer of a love of a mustache, or the possessor of a handsome nose, or ex pressive eyes, or au animated doll, who cau make pretty little speeches, grace ful bows, or sing a pretty little song. She takes great pride unto herself be cause she married Charlie for his own dear self, and not for his surroundings —unaware that a man’s position in so ciety, his friends, aud even his wealth or poverty is as much a part of himself total as the curl of his hair, the song he sings, the strut he affects, or even his education. She generally finds, when the song is less brilliantly £ung, the mustache requires Christauora,ljhehead a wig, and the poetical speeches are turned into matter-of-fact imperatives, that the varnish is rubbed of!, the gloss removed, and Charlie is not the man lie used to be. The money bride lias made herself an article of merchandise, and is to be valued according to the price she ob taus for herself. She belongs to every couditiou of society, from her who mar ries for social position, horses aud car riages, diamonds, houses and a bank account, to the work-girl who marries a one room home, aud the privilege of only half-starving on her husband’s petty weekly pittance. She generally reaches the conclusion that she has sold tobrself too cheap. / The health-seeking bride looks on the 'marriage service as a medical prescrip tion, the parson as a doctor, and the husband as the bolus administered for her ills—a blue-pill that must beswallow ed, however nauseous. She knows that she is travelling oil the road to death, yet clinging to life, endeavors to throw her burden on her lord. Flying from the embraces of the worm, she is com pelled to accept those of the bridegroom. She merely prefers to an earthly to an earthy dwelling, the mairiage-chamber to the narrow house appointed for all living. The honeymoon shines through apothecary bottles, and the epithalmium is coughed in wheezy periods. The purchasing bride is generally an old maid or widow, who, despairing of being courted for her own.sake, seeks a husband through the medium of her pecuniary charms. She generally lets every one know, after marriage, that she keeps the purse-strings in her own hands, and the young man—for this class generally succeeded in obtaining young men—whom she had succeeded in entrappingis highly and everlastingly indebted to her. The experience of such is usually the conclusion that they have paid too dearly for their whistle. The husband desiring bride is, per haps', the most composed of all brides, the least enthusiastic, and the most likely to be happy. She marries be cause it is instinct with her, not be cause she is particularly in love. So she is not so apt to be troubled with the pangs of jealousy, or to suffer from dis appointment, when she discovers that the bridegroom is not much better than the average of men after all. She goes through the days of courtship as a mat ter of course; wonders at the whims and caprices of sentimental girls; re ceives and accepts the offer of marriage as a matter of course; dons the bridal attire, and goes through the whole for mula of wedding, ceremonies and un ceremonies, as a matter of course ; per forms all the duties, and submits to all the little vexations of married life as a matter of course; lives a serene, orderly and quiet life, and dies respected and regretted by all who knew her, as a matter of course. We give the above few cases as sam ples of what might be doue in the mat ter of writing up a natural history of brides. Each particular class could be elaborated to the extent of at least one chapter. Of course, with our limited space, we can only refer to a few cases, add that in very brief terms. We hope some writer possessing sufficient ability may take the matter up, and give us a work upon the subject. Two white girls, captured by Indians in Texas last August, and treated by their captors with great cruelty, have just been ransomed by the commander at Fort Dodge, and will be sent back to their friends. The population of London is over 3,000,000. In this vast population there are more dressmakers and milliners than' bakers grocers, -tailors, or boot makers. E=ll=l Jan faster fntdlipnM VOLUME 67. la lour fo’AuYergne. Exploits of the First Grenadier of France For many a year there was a touching and beautiful custom to be witnessed in a certain regiment of French grenadiers, and which was meant to commemorate the heroism of a departed comrade. When the companies assembled for parade, and the roll was called, there was one name to which its owner could not answer—it was that of La Tour D’Auvergne. When it was called, the oldest ser geant present stepped a pace forward, and, raising his hand to his cap, said, proudly: 11 Died on the field .of honor. For fourteen years* this custom was continued, and only ceased when the restored Bourbons, to please their for eign masters, forbade everything that waafcalculated to preserve the spirits of the soldiers of France. La Tour D’Auvergne was not unwor thy in life the honor thus paid him after his death. He was educated for the army, entered iu 1767, and in 1781 served uuder the Duke de Crillon at the siege of Port Mahon. He served always with distinction, but constantly refused offers of promotion, saying that he was only fit for the command of a company of grenadiers; but finally, the various grenadier companies; being united, he found himself in command of a body of 8,000 men, while retaining only the rank of captain. Hence he was known as the r irst Grenadier of France. But it is of one particular exploit ot bis that we wish to write, more than his career in general. When he was forty years of age he went on a visit to a friend, not fai horn a section of the country that was soon to become the scene of a campaign. While there he was busy in acquainting himself with the features of the country, thinking it not unlikely that tills knowledge might be ol use to him, and while here the brave grenadier was as tonished to learn that the war had been rapidly shifted to this quarter, and that a regiment of Austrians was pushing on to occupy a narrow pass about ten miles from where he was staying, and the possession of which would give them an opportunity to prevent an im portant movement of the French which was then on foot. They hoped to surprise this post, and were moving so rapidly upon it that they were not more than two hours dis tant from the place where he was stay ing, and which they would have to pass in their inarch. It matters not how he heard the news. It is sufficient to say that he determined at once to act upon He had no idea of being captured by the enemy in their advance, and he at once set off for the pass. He knew that the pass was defended by a stout tower, and a garrison of 30 men, and he hoped to be able to warn the men of their dan ger. He hastened on, and arriving there, found the tower in a perfect condition. It had just been vacated by the garrison, who had heard of the approach of the Austrians, and had been seized with a panic thereat and had lied, leaving their arms, consisting of thirty excellent muskets. La Tour D’Auvergne gnashed his teeth with rage as he discovered this. Searching in the building he found sev eral boxes of ammunition which the cowards had not destroyed. For a mo- | meut he was in despair, but then with a i grim smile he began to fasten the main door and pile against it such articles as he could lind. When he had done this iie loaded all the guns liecould dud, andplac.ed them, together with a good supply of ammu nition, under the loop holes that com manded the road by which the enemy must advance. Then he ate heartily of the provisions which he had brought with him, and sat down to wait. He had absolutely formed the heroic resolution to defend the tower alone against the enemy. There were some things in his favor in such an undertaking. The pass was steep and narrow, and the enemy’s troops could enter itonly in double files, and in doingtliis would be fully exposed to the fire from the tower. The original garrison of thirty men could easily have held it against a division, and now one man was about to attempt to hold it against a regiment. It was dark when La Tour D’Auvergne reached the tower, and he had to wait some time for the enemy. They were longer in coming than he had expected, and for a while he was tempted to believe they had abandoned the expedition. \ About midnight, however,’.his practic ed ear caught the tramp of L ver y momeut the sound came nefireiyand at last he heard them entering the defile. Immediately he discharged a couple of muskets into the darkness to let them know that he knew of their presence aud intentions, and he heard the quick, short commands of the officers, and, from the sounds, he supposed that the troops were retiring fromthepass. Until the morning he was undisturbed. The Austrian commander, feeling assured that the garrison had been informed of his movements, and was prepared to receive him, saw that he could not sur prise the post as he had hoped to do, aud deemed it prudent to wait until day light before making his attack. At sunrise he summoned the garrison to surrender. A grenadier answered the summons. “Say to your commander,” he said, in reply to the messenger, “ that this garrison will defeud this post to the last extremity.” The officer who had borne the flag of truce retired, and'in about ten minutes a piece of artillery was brought into the pass and opened on the tower. But to effect this the piece had to be placed directly in front of the tower, and with in easy musket range of it. They had scarcely got the gun in position when a rapid fire was opened ou it from the tower, and continued with such marked efiect that the piece was withdrawn after the second discharge, with a loss of five men. This was a bad beginning, so half an hour after the gun was withdrawn the Austrian Colonel ordered an assault. As the troops entered the defile they were received with a rapid aud accu rate fire, so that when they had passed over half the distance they had to tra verse, they had lost fifteen men. Dis heartened by this, they returned to the mouth of the defile. Three more assaults were repulsed in this manner, and the enemy by sunset had lost forty-five men, of whom ten were killed. The firing from the tower had been rapid and accurate, but the Austrian commander had uoticed this peculiarity about it—every shot seemed to come from the same place. For awhile this perplexed him, but at last he came to the conclusion that there were a num ber of loop-holes close together in the tower, so constructed as to command the ravine perfectly. At sunset the last assault was made I and repulsed, and at dark the Austrian I commander sent a second {summons to the garrison. This time the answer was favorable. The garrison offered to surrender at sun rise the next morning, if allowed to march out with their arms and return to the army unmolested. After some hesitation the terms were accepted. Meantime, La Tour D’Auvergne had passed an anxious day in the tower. He had opened the fight with an arma ment of thirty loaded muskets, but had uot been able to discharge them all. He had fired with surprising rapidity but with surprising accuracy, for it was well known in the army that he never threw away a shot. He had determined to stand to his post until he had accom plished his end, which was to hold the place twenty-four hours, in order to al low the French army time to complete its manoeuvre. After that, he knew the pass would be of no consequence to the enemy. When the demand for a surrender came to him after the last assault, he consented to. it upon the conditions named. The next day at sunrise the Austrian troops lined the pass in two files, ex tending from the mouth to the tower, leaving a space between forthe garrison to pass out. The heavy door of the tower opened slowly, and in a few minutes a bronzed and scarred grenadier, literally loaded down with muskets, came out and passed down the line of troops. He walked with difficulty under his heavy load. ; To the surprise of the Austrians, no one followed him from the tower. In astonishment the Austrian Colonel rode up to him, and asked him in French why the garrison'did not come out. “lam the garrison, Colonel,” said the soldier, proudly. “ What!” exclaimed the Colonel, “do you mean to tell us that you alone have held that tower against me ?” “I have that honor, Colonel,” was the reply. , , “ What possessed you to make such an attempt, grenadier ?” “ The honor of France was at stake.” The Colonel gazed at him fora moment with undisguised admiration; then, raising his cap, he said, warmly: “Grenadier, I salute you. You have proved yourself the bravest of the nrave.” The officer caused all the arms which La Tour D'Auvergne could not carry to be collected, and sent them all, with the grenadier, into the French lines, to gether with a note relating the whole affair. When the knowledge of it came to the ears of Napoleon, he offered to pro mote La Tour D’Auvergne, but the latter declined to accept the promotion, saying that he preferred to remain where he was. This brave soldier met his death in an action at Aberhausan, in June, 1800, and the simple but expressive scene at roll call in his regiment was commenced and continued by the express command of the Emperor himself. A Man Overboard. The wind howled and roared, and ac tually seemed to press me over against the shrouds as I ran up, and then with lour more I was laying ou.t on the main yard trying to furl the great sail. Try ing indeed, with the stiff*, heavy canvass bellying and swelling out, like so many gigantic bubbles, while the great frigate seemed to leap over first one wave and then another, but only to plunge bows under right into the next, deluging the deck with water, so that it rau in cata racts from the scuppers, while the good ship rose, shaking herself clear of the briny storm, and leaping again from wave to wave. It wasn't dark, for there was a wild, strange, lurid light shining up from the loam-capped waves; but it was an awful night, and in some ot the plunges the frigate made, it almost seemed as though she meant to go to the bottom. But not she ; as sail after sail had been reduced she labored less, and at last, under a storm-sail, went scud ding away at a terrible rate. We’d been taken aback that night in a squall in the iSouth Atlantic, and the watch seemed dumb founded. Up came the Captain, and then down he went — caught by a falling block—and there he lay stunned ; but old Stuusail, our first, was there al the same moment in his nightshirt,, just as he’d leaped from his cot, and jumping upon the pinnace, he roared out like thunder, “ Let go every thing—let go there. If you weather this you’ll wdather the last day.” But he was a shocking old tellow to swear, though as fine a sailor as ever walked the quarter deck. And they let go most every thing, and we diil weather it, anti got all pretty snugly furled exceptthemaiiisail, which was done so in a hurry that we were doing it again, last of all, when some how, I can’t say how it was, just as the great ship gave a lurch, I lost my hold, and was away to leeward in that boil ing surf, striking out madly and half suffocated before I rose again to the surface. There was the sea leapingand roaring round me; now hissing and now thundering in my ears; bearing me up so that I was on the top ot a great wave, and then down I went — down —down —as if into a great valley that had no bottom ; and all the while with a great fear and dread on me that I was drowning, for I knew that the ship could not heave to, while a boat would have been swamped in a moment. It’s a strange sensation,thatofdrown ing, for it seems to creep over the body like, and rob a man of every bit of strength and energy, so that he strains his face up gasping-like towards the sky, and, forgetting his swimming, be gins to beat the water frantically like a dog. I can feel it all now, any time when I shut my eyes and think. There’s the running and thundering sea; the shrieking wind ; and the blinding spray cuts off* the tops of the waves, and sweeping along on the gale;* and the horrible feeling of dread, while all sorts of strange thoughts come hurrying through one’s mind, till the fear robs you more and more of the strength, as it did me then, and after a despairing look for the ships felt that I must go down, when I saw a light a bit off, and knew well enough what it was; how the cry would run through the whole ship, “A man overboard,” and how they would cut away the life-buoy and send it over the side with the blue-light blazing to show its whereabouts. The sight of that dim star gave me nevy strength and I struck out again calmly.and slowly for the buoy; only every now and then the feeling would come over me that I was worn out and weak, and should never reach it; or else that the light would burn out and I should never find it in the pitchy dark ness between the waves. Every time these thoughts came my courage failed, and my strokes grew faster and faster, so that I tired myself; while every tifhe I got the better of my fear I kept swim ming on slowly, and seemed to get a bit nearer to the blue- star —a star of hope to me then. Now I was down the hollow, with the salt v-ater bubbling at my lips and dashing up my nose till I was half strangled; then I was mount ing tlm nili of water again, and could catch a sight of the light, but directly after I was in the dark again ; and then when I rose on the next wave there was no light but the faint lurid glare from the waves, and a cold hand seemed to get hold of my heart, for I felt that all was over. Then there seemed to come over me a sort of mad, obstinate, fight-to-the-last fit, and though I knew there was no chance of being picked up, it was fight to the last. But the last soon came, but without the horror and fear 1 expected for I was worn out and breathless, ant already half-dead, as I tried to mutter a part of a prayer, and turned over on my back to float, for my arms had not another stroke in them. All at once something seemed to let light into my heart, and with a start I turned over and caught hold of one of the great copper globes of the life buoy against which I had struck my head while floating, but my hand glided over it and it was gone; but. with a gasping cry, I made another dash at it, and my hand went through one of the loops, and then I almost fainted as I got my arms over the two globes, rising and falling with the waves, and my head and shoulders well above water. I don’t know bow long it was before I seemed to come to a bit; but as soon as 1 did I got my handkerchief off, and lashed myself right to the cross-bar, so that if I fainted or fell asleep I could not sink; aud then not feeling safe, I got two or three of the cords loose, and lashed myself again, and then I fell into a sort of dreamy, wild stupor, for it could not be sleep; and only kept being roused up from it now and then by some bigger wave ; when, after getting rid of the choking water, my hands seemed to hang again, and all was blank. But the morning came at last, with the wind going down fast, though the water rose and fell as much as ever, while the great waves seemed to chase me along as I clung to the life-buoy. I looked east and west, but there was nothing in view; and my heart sunk as the thought came home that I wdS alone upon the great ocean, having es caped one death to fall into the jaws of another. Hundreds of miles from land, without food or water, with nothing LANCASTER, PA., WEDNESDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 17, 1866 but a scrap of tobacco; butl waAthank ful for that, which I knew would" keep off hunger and thirst for hours; and then, with the aea fast going down, I kept watching the sun rise higher in the unclouded sky. Oh! but it was solitary there, floating in midst of that vast ocean, with the dull, sinking, hopeless feeling at one’s heart that it was but to be there but a few hours, and then — What was that? There had been a soft rushing noise, and a great shadow floating over me, and then I saw it was a great albatross with its huge eight feet wings. The bird swept down so close that it alihost touched me—while, as in my horror I shrieked aloud, and plunged, splashed the water, it slowly seemed to flbat away, almost without a motion of its wings—rising and falling, and glid iug up and down over the long-crested waves, till it was out of sight, and I breathed freely once more. Hut I was unnerved, and every now and then, after a long, long look around to try and make out a sail, I broke out in a despairing fit of horror, and could hardly keep myself from shrieking, because I faucied that sharks were coming at me from beneath, and that I should be dragged under the next moment; but no sharks came, and all the weary day I gently roue over the waves, with burning sun pouring down upon my head aud seeming to dry up my brains. Then at last came the evening, when the sun slowly dipped down into the sea like a big ball of glowing fire ; and then, one by one, tbe stars peeped out, till the whole sky was like an arch of diamonds ; aud still, through that dark night I floated on, now trying to pray, now weakly crying and bewailing my fate. Then I'd seem to doze off for awhile, but only to keep waking with a start in a state of horror, when it took me most of a minute to collect my thoughts and make out where I was. And then the horror seemed hardly a a bit less as I floated on half numbed with the cold, and praying once more for it to be day that the warm sun might shiue upon me, though I knew well enough that I should soon be glad to have the shade of night to keep off the scorching rays that had almost driven me mad with iieat aud thirst. But the day came again at last; first, there was the pale light, then the soft rose coior, and then flash after flash of red, orange aud gold, till at last up rose the sun again, turuiug sea aud sky of one glorious color, and sending hope aud light into ray heart. I was not hopeful though for long, for all at once one of the great birds, and then another and auother, came glidiug down upon me with their silent, motionless wings, coming so close as they circled around that 1 opened ray knife, and thought of a draught of the warm blood, aud so great was my Lunger that I could snap at one of their tough, fishy carcasses. And it seemed they were thinking the same of me, for one of them came down upon me unawares, and tore at my shirt with his long, hooked beak. Hut 1 was on the lookout next time, and see ing how motionless I was, the birds grew bolder, swooping and sweping by till there was a rush and a dash, aud then I was being torn, and blinded and beaten, while the water foamed aud boiled around from the buffeting of the wings of the great albatross; for as it swooped down and struck me with its beak, 1 seized hold of it, and then be gan the struggle. Once 1 thought 1 must let go, for the bird tore at me savagely and made the blood stream down my neck and arms; then as both its wings were free, it beat the air and water; and holding on tightly by the the great web feet, I was dragged over the* surface, while the bird’s companions wheeled about in astonishment at the strange sight; but at last Igot one hand free, aud drove my knife home through the deuse feathers and thick skin, and soon the bird lay motionless upon the But what a feast that was. and what a protection for my head 1 formed of the dense feathery skin of the poor bird’s breast, hanging the great wings to my neck, so that the other birds seemed scared and kept their dis tance, as I floated there, feasting upon the tough, rank, fishy flesh. It saved my life though, and for days after served to keep me alive; but only just alive, tor gradually sense and reason seemed to pass from me; aud but for the feathers sheltering my head and shoulders, the birds would soon have made au end of me, for they dart down savagely upon anything lying motion lessupouthe sea. Thegreaterpart ofthe time seemed to be a sort of dim dream where I was in a half waking state and passing through the terrors of the storm again and again, till 1 had an indis tinct idea that there was the rattle of oars in the row locks of a boat, and voices talking to me; but I knew nothing for weeks after, till I awoke one morning to feel the soft breeze gently coining in through the porthole close to which my hammock was hung, and I could just see the bright, blue sea aud the bouses on shore, for we were initio harbor. I felt very quiet and coutent. Nothing seemed to trouble me except a wish to know where I was and to ask a few questions. Hy-and-by a good humored looking sailor came to the side of the hammock, and spoke to me ; and then talkingjust iu a whisper, I got to know from him how 1 had been picked up, for the at tention of the crew had been taken by the birds swooping round and round, when they made out the copper globes of the buoy, and sent a boat to pick them up. Hut it was long enough before I could do moie than just crawl upon deck, for the cold seemed to have sunk into my limbs, and taken away their use; aud even now at times I feel all over me stiff, and so racked with pain, that I almost feel disposed to say that life’s a burden. But that soou goes off again, aud remembering that we all have our share of the troubles of this world, I turn thankful for the way I was saved, and give a bit of a shudder as I call to mind being a man over board. iFrom tbe Indianapolis Journal.] 1 Lusus Nature;—Half Horse, Half Ox. During last week, au animal was brought to this city from the northern part of this State, the like of which was never before seen. A year ago we learned from several reliable gentlemen who had seen it, that such a monster was extant, though rather too diminu tive to attract much notice. About the middle of the next month, its keepers concluded that it had attained a growth sufficient to be exhibited, and it was brought to this city, to remain till after the State Fair, but its extreme vicious ness rendered it unsafe and improper to allow it to stay here. The general characteristics and features of the ox in this strange and remarkable beast. The head and neck are broad and heavy, giv ing it thefierce disposition of the buffalo, rather than the quiet and docile char acter of the ox, while the mane, reach ing from the forehead to the shoulder, and sweeping to the knees, adds to the general appearance of ferocity. The horns are heavy at the base, but very short, and remarkably polished and I pointed. The eye is dull, but suggests things unutterable —an expression of latent power and devilishness, which the general appearance of the ,animal confirms. The muzzle is black and ugly, the wide nostril arguing a large breathing apparatus and unconquerable endurance. The jaw is heavy and prominent, the forehead full but rather square. The depth of the shoulder is very great, the fore legs short and large, the foot broad and deeply cleft. But here the bovine resemblance ceases al together, and the equine character istics begin. The body is slight and rounded, closely covered by a glossy coat of fine, short hair, a long flowing tail nearly reaches the ground. The hinder legs are smooth and lithe as those of a race-horse, and the hoofs rather slight, but well formed, contrasting with the heavy legs and cleft hoofs of the forward part of the animal. In gait, too, is a ludicrous cross between that of the two I brutes of whose natures it seems to par take. While the motions of the foward part of the body are slow, awkward and shambling, those of the hinder are ex tremely graceful and agile. Although it is one of the most wonderful curiosi ties to be found in the animal kingdom. Who will give it a name? Bame Fasbion-Her Latest Decree. From a New York Letter. The mysterious members of the handi craft which carries out the decrees of Dame Fashion, and at once furnish taste and clothing to the American peo ple, have just issued the following regu lations for winter wear. The fall openings are just over, and these decrees are the result, and are in consonance with the latest displays : DECREE I. —ON DRESSES. There is to be no anarchy in the cut of ladies' winter apparel. They are to have two distinct costumes for morning and evening wear —the former short; the latter, for dinner toilets, soirees,